Or We Can Just Leave it Here
by Pendancy
Summary: Dean doesn't like the dynamics of this conversation. Dean thinks that he wants to rip out Castiel's throat with his teeth, free that pulsing power from its human cage. He wants to tear the vessel to shreds, nails ripping meat from muscle. He wants to— (WIP)
1. Chapter 1

**1.**

He fixes his black eyes on the angel because the angel hates it. The pair staring back burns bluer than usual, fierce enough to hold Dean's attention; his fingers are digging into his palms with the silent crackling of unbridled, primal opposition.

Castiel thinks he can take him because he's older, pre-ancient. He's fought wars upstairs and down, scorched the earth and saved it a thousand times over. Saved _him._

( _Just a slip—won't happen again)_

Dean's saved the world a few times too. He thinks he can handle one insignificant angel, even when the veins beneath his skin pulse with disgust at the stench Cas is giving off. It's an indistinguishable scent, a burn. It seeps into Dean's nostrils, pushing its way into his throat. It makes his shaded eyes prickle and water. He hates it.

"What, you wanna make out?" An apathetic taunt despite his current position. Listless, until he leans forward as far as the bindings allow, gives off everything he has. It's enough to scatter life for miles, a low rumbling that shakes the very foundation of the bunker. Enough to stop a man's heart in his chest, and Castiel doesn't budge, doesn't recoil. Then there's only frustration, a swelling pride that draws a throaty growl and a hard jerk that nearly tips the chair forward, wooden legs screeching against old stone.

( _Fucking flinch_ )

Castiel is angry. Dean can taste it when he snaps his teeth around the angel's left wrist ( _back up_ ) in a fleeting attempt for dominance, which earns him a resounding slap across his cheek before he's shoved back with nothing but pure will and animosity, pinned by a grace too bright to see.

The angel tastes like blood and Kansas.

( _Doesn't matter anymore_ )

What matter are the fading teeth marks on an angel's skin that _he_ put there, and now there's fire in Castiel's eyes. A righteous fire that would consume Hell in its purity, fire that makes Dean wince and snarl.

"The filth of Hell is all over you." Castiel's voice is calm, threatening, his energy burning something awful. It ebbs and expands, brightening the room when Dean presses back against it with rancid curses and blatant threats. "The first time that I saved you," Cas is visibly clenching his jaw while he distractedly rubs at the already-healed wound, and the unrestrained anger is making Dean hard. "The first time, Dean—" he spoke Dean's name like a disappointment, "you begged me for it." A beat of silence, and then: "You scrambled toward me, broken and corrupt, and you _begged_ me to take you home. To Sam. Do you remember?"

( _No. Yes.)_

"Game's changed, Angel." The sizzling of skin is as painful as it sounds but Dean twists against the ropes anyway, tearing threads and flesh alike with slow, blunt trails.

"Yes, I'm aware. You're stronger now," Castiel softly mocks. "Are you intending on wearing the bindings down or slow amputation?"

"Whichever comes first."

"I can't stand to look at you," the angel spits.

( _But you do_ )

To which Dean shrugs, the apathy slowly settling back into place. The rampant rise and fall of rage touched with apprehension teeters just at the edge of his tongue. "So don't."

" _You_ ," the fucking angel's hands are pressed against the sides of his face suddenly and forcefully; his skin is too fucking _hot_ like they're back in The Pit and Dean knows that this isn't a bullshit threat. Cas is out of ideas—Sammy's stupid ritual didn't do anything except almost kill them both—and angels are absolute in their resolve. Cas goes on, holding Dean's body still, "awoke and made the conscious choice to consort with Crowley instead of coming to _me_."

( _Envy's a sin, Angel_ )

"If you wanted it that bad, I never could turn down a good blowjob." Dean's smile is all teeth. "Want me to tell you what I'm gonna do to you when I get outta this chair?" Feral and low. "Or do you wanna guess?" he manages despite the strong, burning fingers pressing deep bruises into his tightened jaw.

"Be quiet."

"Or what?" Dean thinks he wants to fuck the angel's pretty mouth. ( _He'll let you_ )

"Or I seal you into the cage with my brothers." Simple and clipped, hand only gripping tighter. "And yours."

Dean snorts: a harsh, mocking sound. "Hell can't hold me." Cas knows that.

"Lucifer can. Michael can." the angel assures him gently.

"You wanna come downstairs with me?" A genuine invitation, held out for the taking. "I'll give you the tour." A wink. "Strip down that flashy pride and see how long it takes an angel to break. Wha'dya say, Cas?"

( _—can show you_ )

Silence.

Dean doesn't like the dynamics of this conversation. Dean thinks that he wants to rip out Castiel's throat with his teeth, free that pulsing power from its human cage. He wants to tear the vessel to shreds, nails ripping meat from muscle. He wants to—

Then it slams him.

( _F—uck_ )

White-hot light piercing through his veins like a sharp injection, every cell wailing with the rush of it. He can't move, can't open his fucking mouth. Can't reel back from the cooling hands gripping, then cupping, then gently holding his jaw so that Dean faces upward, galaxies and threats and promises that he doesn't want flowing between angel and demon in silent, thumping crests of atoms and molecules and clear blue.

There's quiet, then the constant, peaceful trickling of shallow water over pebbles, the angel's voice breaking through it in a soft murmur.

"When you delved into it." ( _I know this place_ ) "When you chose Hell, you gave me more influence over you than you can imagine." And Castiel's voice is rumbling low near Dean's ear, slow hands leaving his skin ( _finally. Fuck off_ ).

Paralyzed in a warm, ebbing blanket of grace, it stings as much as it soothes. Castiel's repetitive, " _Don't fight it_ ," is wrapping around his bones, pulling him deeper until his limbs are heavy and weak. Dean's ragged breathing is calming gradually, the rise and fall of his chest becoming slow and even.

( _Do you know what I'm gonna do to you)_

"If I have to keep you this way, so be it." The angel has taken a step back and is watching Dean with a solemn downturn to his mouth, arms relaxed at his sides. "I could loosen those bindings," Cas informs matter-of-factly. "I could tarnish those sigils and it would make no difference," he taunts, and Dean isn't impressed by the angel's bragging. "But." A nod towards Dean. "Up to this point, you have managed to escape every perilous situation you've gotten yourself into, so." He regards Dean with a slow blink, doesn't even try to restrain what he's giving off. ( _Too bright_ ) "Until I find a way to save you, this is where you stay. If you manage to escape, I will throw you into the cage without hesitation."

( _What I'm gonna do)_

"Don't need savin'"

"Very original, Dean." Dismissive. Bored.

( _You ain't too impressive yourself, angel_ )

The _grace_ doesn't fully retract when Castiel leaves the room, thick wooden door clicking resolutely behind him. It permeates the walls, the floor beneath Dean's feet, layers of his skin. The suffocation of it presses him down; it negates his power, it puts him in his fucking _place_ , doesn't it?

Somewhere through the haze, Dean continues his slow grinding against the ropes, soaked through with holy water, burning like a son of a bitch with each drag against his skin. ( _Just a little more_ ) The angel will come back; the angel will come back because he _knows_ this shit won't hold Dean. Not forever. ( _Just a little—_ ) The angel will come back if Dean _asks_ the angel to come back, because this is the exchange between them, isn't it? The stream is still trickling, flashes of the sun's gentle reflections catching on pebbled waves. Dean tries with everything he has to push the hallucination away, away to where he can keep it down, focus on getting out of this before Castiel comes back for round two.

But the leaves are rustling sweet autumns in his ears, the air crisp and morning-kissed. The burning in his wrists lessens as he breathes it all in.


	2. Chapter 2

Fascination is something that never ceases to amaze Castiel. Awe can turn a threat into a spectacle, something to be viewed objectively even while Castiel's prominent instinct is to _remove_ it: the offense to his Father's work, the stain. The stain has transfused itself into Dean Winchester's every molecule, his soul unrecognizably corrupt. This is worse than the thing he pulled from Hell, worse than half of the things he has sent back down. This is a once-pure being, something molded so perfectly from his Father's hands—reformed by Castiel's at his Father's command—now dripping with vile, fragmented thoughts. Rotten. _Unclean._

There is no sin that Dean Winchester has committed in life that can begin to scratch the outer skin of the thing he has become.

Until now, Castiel had told himself that like all things, this was rectifiable. He believed in the underlying good of all creatures created by the divine will of his Father, believed that the untainted core of humanity still existed in one tainted by Hell's influence. After all, Castiel had pulled Dean from its depths once, hadn't he?

Then, it was easier. Then, Castiel operated on orders and Dean Winchester was nothing more than a goal. Dean's survival instinct never wavered long after it was useless, he _fought_ at every turn: Alastair, himself, Castiel. Fought and clawed and in the end, the light of his soul shone brighter than anything darkness could taint.

He'd remained close to Castiel when their journey began. The demons' numbers had thinned significantly, though not so many as Castiel's garrison. Three remained, including himself—the other two could be heard in the distance running through the remaining opposition, flashes of violence and victory casting distorted hues on the ground. Hell's warriors shrieked and perished in bursts of energy and sulfur. Not far from them were Castiel and his charge, both weakened from struggle and lacking the trust necessary to fight through a pair, let alone a pack.

Dean's form bore the scars and taints of Alastair's ministrations; his face was drawn into aggression and paranoia, the line of his jaw flexing as he visibly clenched his teeth again and again. Pure adrenalin—true caution had been stripped from him long ago by his captor and mentor. Stained with the blood of the Unfortunate spread upon his rack before the remainder of the garrison stormed the final threshold, Dean's hands were clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes sharply studied the landscape that lay before them. Castiel noted with a tinge of disgust that the black of his charge's eyes was solid, had probably been for some time.

"If you fight with me—" The words died on his lips before he'd finished speaking; Dean was unresponsive, taking Castiel in like an unreal thing, regarded his words as alien. He showed no response to the proposition, or Castiel's presence, or—anything, really.

There was no room for error. Too many had been lost for this one man.

A disappointed look was purposely aimed at his charge, and Castiel wanted to cup the man's cheek, gift him with the warmth of Grace and his Father's love. Gift him with things that were his birthright, for he was God's finest and most loved creation—more loved than the Earth they tread upon, more loved than the Angels. A warmth flashed through his chest in this stale, hollow place. An instinct to protect. Misplaced pride.

How was he supposed to piece this thing back together?

Dean responded with a snarl and a rough stride towards the nearest path, offering Castiel an obscene hand gesture as he increased the distance between them with hard, determined steps.

And so it went.

—

It turned out that Dean did need both Castiel and God to fight his way out of Hell, but these memories are something Castiel chooses not to dwell upon as he quietly walks the unusually bare streets of Denver, the cold air and distance from Dean enough to clear his head. Inside the bunker had been _suffocating_ ; Dean's thoughts were constant assaults on the very air around him: he wanted to tear Castiel apart, he wanted to see Castiel debased and at the mercy of something without mercy to give.

The angel squeezes his eyes tight, exhales and pushes those thoughts away too. Sam had failed in his attempt; Castiel had failed in quelling the demon beyond a temporary hypnosis. No amount of Grace or human blood will have an effect on someone afflicted with Dean's combination of misfortune. It is undocumented, unprecedented. There are no texts, no one to consult. The Angels want Dean dead, Hell has both loyalists and enemies alike on the prowl, Dean Winchester wants nothing more than to violate a Warrior of the Lord and brutally murder his brother, and in the center of this, Castiel is attempting to face the possibility that salvation is no longer an option. Not this time. Sometimes, things end. Dean Winchester's humanity would have left him one way or another, be it this or the separation of soul from body that is inevitable in all living things.

Inevitability.

The caged feeling is not unlike the one Castiel felt when the two of them had been traveling upward together for what seemed like years, a silent but respectful repertoire having fallen into place somewhere between Castiel losing another of his brothers and Dean piercing the flesh of a demon's throat deep with his fingers when the creature had attempted to ambush Castiel from behind. Upward, trails of bodies and anguish behind them marking an uncelebrated victory.

( _Hell had grown quiet. Ominous.)_

Dean Winchester's chest was heaving in deep, ragged breaths. His stamina paled in comparison to Castiel's and it was showing at the worst possible time. They were close. Close enough that Castiel could smell life above: skies and grasses, water and creatures. Dean had chosen to fight with him until the end, then.

Now.

( _Well._ )

Now Castiel has a situation on his hands that requires immediate action. There are no charms or rituals, no deals to be made. Nothing holy can remove something so ancient as the Mark, and Castiel's Father is, as always, nowhere to be found. Absent, and his brothers are long gone. The Mark's origin is lost to time and secrecy. ( _Lucifer knows_. _Michael knows._ ) Greedy and insistent, it would have Dean like _this_ —soiled and vile—for the sake of maintaining its host after death.

( _What have you done_ )

—

Breaking the news to Sam is something that simply must be done, and yet Castiel finds himself avoiding this particular detail. Later, there will be resentment. Dean Winchester's brother will call Castiel, " _Enemy,_ " and the fragile ties between an angel and humanity will tear and disintegrate. Sometimes, prices must be paid.

—

It isn't a fraction of a second after the door quietly clicks shut behind Castiel that he's face-to-face with an unrestrained, seething demon. The hatred is rolling off of Dean in thick waves that make Castiel's vessel's skin prickle; the defiance in his dark eyes unwavering.

Neither speaks. Neither moves.

This challenge, Castiel knows, will directly determine whether or not he will have to put Dean down tonight. Dean knows it too. That's why his jaw trembles when he dips his head to avoid breaking eye-contact when Castiel's vision shifts to the chair and failed restraints. Feral and afraid, an unpredictable animal.

This isn't Dean. This isn't even the darkest part of Dean; this is something taken and twisted, turned inside-out and mangled.

The other steps forward, but Castiel holds his post, bracing himself for the inevitable lunge. It will come—the adrenalin is running like a sharp current through the demon's every cell; it makes his lips tighten, his shoulders tense—and when it does come, Castiel knows, nothing short of taking Dean's head will stop him.

( _Please don't_ )

The situation must be diffused. It seems impossible: Dean is all pride and murderous intent. Easily offended; something low rumbles in the demon's throat when Castiel shifts in their checkmate. Is there anything left in there? Castiel cocks his head, ignores the snarl it elicits. He remembers a time when Dean would have insisted he put him down, a time where there was a glimmer of humanity through the darkness, something to be reasoned with.

( _it should have held him_ )

Dean is mimicking him: his shifts, his breaths, the direction of his gaze. Assessing, sizing up. Waiting for the flinch that will admit submission, the thing that will cause the demon's pride to swell beyond repair. Castiel doesn't want to do this. There are other things to attend, most importantly the salvation of a soul too tattered and rancid to fit inside of a body so familiar. He takes an unnecessary breath, watches Dean mirror it with a slow concentration.

"Dean."

" _What._ " And there is no question in the demon's voice, no rising inflection or small interest. One word speaks volumes and worlds of hatred between Demon and Angel, a war since time remembered brought here to tear asunder a companionship between Angel and Human.

No.

No, there are no humans here. Only a being that draws close enough to warrant a threat, one who stares Castiel down as though he is something lesser, something to be dealt with and disposed of. Still, he doesn't take a step back, doesn't lower his head from dark eyes and a darker intent.

"This isn't a game," Castiel warns, acutely aware of the demon's fingers twitching at the sound of his voice. Dean is riled up and ready to lunge, nerves so tense that a wrong breath between them will cause a snap. "If you attack me, I _will_ put you down. I have been dealing with your kind since before you were an idea, Dean." A slow blink, one that puts a half-smirk on the demon's lips. To this one, everything is submission. Castiel thinks that Dean's place in Hell is a high one, one that allows this type of behavior without repercussion. Is this how he puts lesser demons in their place? Is this how he has managed to survive an entire realm of demons who would do anything to see him fall?

Castiel imagines that a Winchester would not receive a warm welcome, regardless of their power or the company they keep.

"Mm?" And for once, Dean seems genuinely interested. "S'not?" A wink, a taunt. "Think it is, Angel. Look at you," he says it with a mock-grimace. "You're afraid to move."

"I don't want to—"

"Don't wanna _what._ " Closer still.

( _I don't want to do this_.)

"Please," and Castiel offers the other a leveled look, something to reason and make sense of their exchange.

But Dean enjoys begging, doesn't he? It boosts his already overinflated ego, gives him something to boast about with a condescending expression and a lift of his hand. His fingers are toying with the hem of Castiel's sleeve, pads pinching fabric between them, one nail scraping lightly against the angel's wrist. "You like this, Cas?" A bump of his nose against the angel's cheek, a chuckle that sends revolting chills over Castiel's skin, down his spine.

"No."

"Liar."

This is when Castiel closes his eyes, attempts to gain control of his own anger. The demon does this to provoke him, to put him in a position where he will have no choice but to defend himself and begin a battle which Dean mistakenly believes he will win. The lips on his chin burn like hellfire, the swipe of a tongue that follows nothing less than a slow, drawn-out assault. The demon is testing him, urging them closer together, seeing how much he can get away with before this all falls apart.

Castiel won't let it.

"Final warni—" And the mouth that silences him is all teeth and aggression, assaulting and consuming, taking something that isn't Dean's to take. Not like this.

( _Not ever._ )

But the thing bubbling low in his stomach isn't his Grace threatening to diffuse this situation, isn't a challenge or a defense. It is his vessel's reaction to something his vessel has no business involving itself in. This is beyond physical; it transcends simple dominance and gratification. This is beyond a demon's hand gripping his hip, urging him back towards the wall.

"Tell me to stop," Dean breathes against him, and there is no honor in his words.


End file.
